


more than slack rope, more than sunstroke

by haloud



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pre-Slash, emetophobia warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 14:26:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10025054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haloud/pseuds/haloud
Summary: On some days, the contract weighs nothing at all. On other days, things get a little more complicated. Matthew, still reeling from the events of the Dread Isle, tries to struggle through on his own, and Guy gets caught in the crossfire.





	

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from mineshaft by dessa

On an average day, the contract weighs nothing at all. It’s simply forgotten, like a grass cut on the plains, like fat trimmings off a bad cut of meat. Guy sits beside the fire and lets the conversation flow over him, Lyn and Kent and Rebecca and Lucius, with a corner of Matthew’s cloak tucked around him. Matthew hands him a stick for roasting nuts and sweets over the coals, close enough that their arms press together and stay there, and the entire army leans in close with sticky hands and happy laughs.

Not every day is so easy. The Dread Isle changed a lot of things. Most can sense it in Lord Eliwood; he goes on the same, the same as always, but he seems always to be leaning on Lord Hector, or with his arm looped through Lady Lyn’s. Guy can sense it in Matthew as well. Grief, distant and sloshing and drunk, bleeds out of him like blood from an open wound. Every person in the army honors Leila’s death and the sacrifice she made doing what is possibly the world’s most dangerous, most vital work; but Matthew spurns any attempts to approach him and, where possible, tries to avoid mentioning his connection to her at all to those not aware.

Yet, despite their insurmountable odds, there are more good days than bad. What a wonder to be surrounded by genial, good people, people chasing joy even if what they have is furtive, fleeting, now. They shake the last of that damned fog out of their brains and begin the long trek back to Bern. For once, Guy begins to feel like he _belongs,_ contract or no contract.

On other days, however, the contract becomes a collar, a manacle, an anchor dragging him into the deep. The hours not spent fighting for his life against Fang mercs or Bern soldiers are spent wiping blood from his mouth after one of Matthew’s ambushes. His ears buzz with Matthew’s laughter and his jabs against Guy’s honor: _what, you think I’m being unfair?  Wanna go back on your word, Guy?  It’s fine, I promise not to tell your upstanding kinsmen…for the right price._ Matthew’s eyes, like flint, like a whetstone, like ash, burn gray and dying in his pale, mocking face.

Some days, Guy beds down with his hand curled beneath Matthew’s sharp jaw, and he thinks, _what can I do?  How can I help you?_ Others, he beds down alone, arm curled around his stomach, dreaming fitfully of starving and drowning in ink.

\--

Not every battle they face is a large-scale conflict with dire implications for the future of their entire world. Some battles are simple skirmishes, small-scale affairs with troops of morphs or Bernese militia sent to test their defenses and harry their progress. They rotate watches, scouts, and rear guards to keep units fresh and ready to handle whatever the road throws at them. The schedule is consistent as clockwork, courtesy of their mysterious tactician, which means that it doesn’t take long for Guy to notice when the roster begins to skip over him in the rotation.

The week after they depart the Dread Isle, Guy is assigned to sentry duty. It’s the lightest assignment of the lot, though it can be exhausting to stay on high alert throughout the day until the night watch takes over. Still, there’s something about it that reminds Guy of his youth on the plains. The Lycian countryside has none of the warm, waving grass he remembers when homesickness grips him tight, and the smell of steel and road dust overpowers the smell of the wind and the horses; but, even so, Guy falls easily into the muscle memory of loping alongside the pack, falling back, and ranging ahead, keeping his eyes and ears open and alert.

The routine is familiar and easy to get lost in, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t a shock when he’s put on the same assignment the following week as well.

“Maybe there’s been a mix-up,” Serra says directly into his ear. Neither of their names have moved position from last week. Her bony elbow digs into his shoulder as she leans over him to get a better look. “Maybe our esteemed tactician is finally losing it.”

Flinching from the volume of her voice, Guy tries to shy away. “That’s unlikely. Maybe…we’re being rewarded?  With lighter responsibilities?”

“I could buy that if it was just my greatness we were talking about, but what have _you_ done lately?”

“Yeah…you have a point.”

Her elbow jabs him at the comment, and she pulls him into a noogie. “I was _teasing_ you, you gloomy little muffin. Don’t be such a downer; you’re as bad as Erk!  Let’s just report to our posts and chalk it up to a happy accident, huh?”

It’s less easy for Guy to forget. He can’t help but feel that there’s something he’s missing, some strange new development that he has overlooked. Trepidation disturbs the slow, comforting routine of sentry duty, and Guy spends every day waiting for the other shoe to drop. Serra’s chatter grates on his nerves more than it typically does, but his conversation skills only get worse under pressure. All these factors combine to make for very long shifts.

To make matters even worse, Matthew begins avoiding him.

It’s probably because he’s working with Serra for the second week in a row. Guy rationalizes away the change; Matthew’s teasing would only stress him out more, after all, so is it really so bad that he’s backed off?  No. This is for the best.

He becomes a very bad watch partner, spending hours hunched miserably in trees and other vantage points with his knees up to his chin and an unconscious pout fixed on his face. Eventually, even Serra gives up.

Another week passes; they make their cautious way across Lycia. Soon they’ll be in Ostia and on to Bern, and then the real battles will begin anew. Surely when the new week rolls around, they will want the best, most rested soldiers on the most dangerous assignments. But, once again, the new rosters are posted and Guy (and Serra) remain day sentries.

This time, some people grumble and cut their eyes at the pair. Legault eyes Guy steadily, sending cold worry sliding down Guy’s spine, though the man leaves without a word. Hoping that he can escape before anyone confronts him, Guy tries to scurry away; however, before he can manage it, a hand catches him buy the arm.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” Oswin asks. His voice is as calm and low as ever—Guy has never once heard him raise his voice, and the very thought makes him shiver—but his hand is large and heavy, and Guy can feel the strength in it as he’s held tightly.

“N-no,” he stutters horribly in response, squirming away and bolting. He’s across the camp before Oswin has any hope of catching him.

Maybe it _would_ be best to speak with the tactician about this mix-up. Soon, too, before they reach Bern and the real fighting begins. If it’s an honest mistake, then the disarray could cause problems for the entire army. Guy could end up the reason someone gets seriously injured or even—

Goosebumps break out all over his body, and he turns sharply and hurries back towards the pavilion in the center of camp.

“Oh, are you looking for the tactician?” Lady Lyn asks as he approaches, putting down her papers to smile at him. Guy nods, too out of breath to reply. “Well, you’re going to have to wait,” she adds sympathetically. “They’re very busy at the moment, and Hector just pulled them away to work on something. I’ll pass along that you need to speak with them, though, or you can wait here.”

Guy gulps in air and rights himself. “No…thank you, Lady Lyn. But I have to get back to duty or else Serra will wonder where I’ve gotten to.”

“Try coming back after supper, if you can. Have a good day!”

Of course, it was silly to think that he could just waltz up to the most important member of the army and expect to immediately have his concerns heard. The tactician is the most important member of the army and obviously wouldn’t have time for complaints. But, all the same, maybe he should have told Lady Lyn anyway in order to get the message sent along; there really could be some horrible consequence to an error even that inconsequential-seeming.

“Deep in thought, Guy?” 

A finger runs lightly up the back of Guy’s neck, making him jump and squawk. He wheels around, hand clasped to his nape, to see Matthew smirking at him.

“Wh-what do you want?” He demands tremulously.

“Tut, tut, Guy, you know you’ll never beat me if you let me sneak up on you like that…”

Guy drops his hand. Ignoring the jibe at his goals, he says, “What is it, Matthew?  You’ve avoided me for weeks; what is it that you need me for now?”

Like wiping blood from steel, any mirth or teasing in Matthew’s face disappears instantly. “I need to speak with you,” he says, turning on his heel and marching away towards the tree line. Guy has to jog to keep up.

“Matthew, wait!  I do have to get back—where are we going?”

He doesn’t hesitate or say a word until both are well out of earshot of the camp. When they’re finally far enough away, he stops abruptly enough that Guy almost slams into his back, but he doesn’t turn around.

“In three days’ time, Lord Hector will meet his lord brother in Thria. There have been reports of mercenary armies massing around the territory, and we can’t know for certain, but it’s likely that these mercenaries are either Black Fang or unofficially hired by Bern. They wish to stop our meeting with Lord Uther and any deal for reinforcements we may strike. The battle could get bloody. But you will not be in it.”

Alarm and confusion war for control, but the need to know why it’s so important Guy not take the field wins out. “What do you mean?  If there’s a chance that an entire mercenary army has amassed, then we’ll need every capable unit—“

“Lord Uther will have troops with him. Ostian regulars are the best troops in all Lycia.”

“That may be so, but I am more than capable. More hands are always better when lives are at stake.”

“We will hardly suffer from the absence of a single Sacaean swordsman. You sit this one out.”

Heat floods Guy’s face. “I’m not saying that I can make a massive difference alone, but I _am_ skilled, and I couldn’t live with myself if something—“

“Enough. I’ve told you what will happen already.”

Matthew’s voice is so cold, his shoulders so stiff, his turned back so unresponsive, that arguing with him feels like floundering for footing on an icy lake. A helpless panic yawns in the pit of his stomach, confused and anxious. Who is Matthew to order him around?  But if Guy does disobey him, would that be the end of whatever strange friendship they have between them?  The thought turns him cold.

Guy squares his shoulders and sucks in a fortifying breath. He grabs Matthew by the shoulder and spins him around, refusing to quail at the furious look Matthew sends at him as he jerks away.

“I know you have a low opinion of my fighting abilities,” Guy begins, voice imploring, “But it isn’t for you to say who takes the field and who doesn’t. I follow the tactician’s orders. And if I’m going to be the greatest swordsman in Sacae someday, then—“

A harsh laugh cuts him off. “And how are you going to achieve that if you die spitted on the end of some sellsword’s blade?”

“What makes you so certain I’ll die?  It’s no more likely that I’ll die than anyone else in the army; are you coming to them all with this information?  What has you so worked up?”

“You ask too many damn questions.”

“Please, Matthew. I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to understand. You just need to listen.”

“That isn’t good enough.”  Guy’s own boldness leaves him panting slightly, heart pounding in his chest like he just ran a mile. Matthew’s face is like stone, and he still won’t meet Guy’s eye.

“Well that’s just too damn bad.”  Matthew’s hand comes up to cover his shoulder where Guy grabbed him moments ago. The movement looks almost unconscious, distracted.

“Matthew…”

Finally, Matthew looks at him. His eyes blaze, lined with deep circles. Guy trembles like a rabbit on a snare and hates himself for it.

“You don’t have to like it. You just have to listen. I’m calling in a favor. You can’t refuse.”

And Matthew leaves him unable to argue or answer, shivering in the increasing wind.

\--

In the end, honor wins out. Guy explains the situation to Lady Lyn, pausing and mumbling enough to be nearly inaudible, and she nods her understanding. Guy is just happy that he doesn’t have to face Lord Hector or the tactician, though his own cowardice hounds his sleep.

He watches the group march into Thria Castle. With each soldier that passes him, Guy drinks them in as if he will never see them again. No matter how he cranes his neck, the only glimpse he can catch is of a flash of red cape fluttering through the crowd.

_He’s going to die._

He feels them in their graves already as he wanders through the castle town. When will he get the news?  Will he be alone as the sun goes down, straining his ears through the market chatter to listen for screams of agony? Will some scar-faced mercenary captain parade Lord Eliwood’s body through the central square?

Guy’s stomach rebels against him in an alleyway behind a butcher’s shop. He doubles over, sick into the stinking rubbish pile, flashes of slashed throats and opened bellies behind his eyes. Wiping his mouth, he straightens up despite his weak knees. Matthew forbade him from approaching the palace until he receives a message at the inn that the fighting has ended. Guy has nothing but empty hours ahead of him.

Staggering out of the alley, he scrubs at his streaming eyes. He does his best not to appear drunk or ill; the last thing he needs is an altercation with city watch.

Distracted by filtering his own buzzing thoughts, he slams directly into the wide chest of a towering man in dingy armor. Stunned and unbalanced from vomiting and worry, Guy would have fallen to the street if the man didn’t grab him and hold him steady.

“Hey!  Watch where you’re headed, boy!” The man barks, righting Guy and snatching the front of his tunic.

“A-apologies. I was only—“

“Hey,” a second voice says. The owner of the voice is a second man dressed much like the first, who steps forward with glinting eyes. “Gorl, what do you suppose a lone Sacaean is doing in Thria?  He’s not one of Eubans’s boys, is he?”

“That’s a good question, Jalis. Boy, you got a contract with Captain Eubans?”

“No, I’ve never heard that name before.” 

The second man, Jalis, leans in closely. “Then what’s your business here?  Ain’t causing trouble, are you?”

Say anything. Say you’re looking for mercenary work; you have a sword, and they’ll believe it. Guy clasps his hand around Gorl’s thick, corded wrist. He has no chance of breaking out of the hold like this, and anyway, where would he run?  He can’t stray too far from the inn and risk losing his way.

“I’m only passing through,” Guy says, cursing the weak excuse.

“Don’t he look an awful lot like the Sacaean we’re supposed to be hunting?” Gorl asks. A wave of dread curls through Guy’s already-abused stomach, and he swallows down fresh bile. Gorl’s hand tightens, forcing Guy ever so slightly onto his toes.

“Don’t be a jackass. We’re hunting a Sacaean _woman.”_

“Could still be related. Boy!”  Gorl shakes him hard enough to make his teeth rattle. “Boy, do you know anything about a girl named Lyndis?”

“Never heard of her.”  Guy’s other hand settles on the hilt of his sword.

“He’s lying,” Jalis says, voice heavy with amusement. “Well, we can fix that. Take him into the alley, Gorl, and let’s teach this little shit a little bit about respect and honesty.”

Gorl takes a heavy step forward, and in the same movement Guy unsheathes his sword and slams the hilt into Gorl’s wrist. A sickening _crunch_ fills the air, and Gorl releases him with a scream of pain and rage. This has officially crossed the line of ‘typical marketplace dispute,’ and bystanders all around exclaim in surprise and fear. Guy rams his sword back into the scabbard and takes off before Gorl, Jalis, or any passing watchman can stop him.

He runs without looking back, taking turns as they appear before him and trying to throw any pursuers off his trail. The problem that arises, however, is that Guy has spent precious little time in Lycian cities. Within the hour, he’s free of pursuers but also hopelessly lost. He has no shoes other than the thin, soft boots unsuited for running on cobblestones, and his feet throb as he slides down a wall to rest for a moment.

Apart from a large tear in the front of his tunic, he escaped from the assault unscathed. Still, the memory of Gorl’s massive hand holding him down sends a shudder through Guy; both men towered over him and were toting massive axes to boot. That could have gone very poorly, with him beaten delirious before anyone ever bothered to raise an alarm for the poor sap losing teeth in the alley. Guy shudders again. His mouth still tastes of bile, but the run did manage to wipe his mind clear of the spiraling despair of the fates of his companions that had gripped him earlier.

Guy glances up at the sky. The buildings and the city walls make it difficult to tell the time with any precision, but the paling of the sky indicates that the sun has begun to set. Who knows how long it will take for Guy to work his way back to the inn to await Matthew’s summons. Climbing to his feet, Guy begins to limp his way towards the closest main street and, hopefully, someone who can point him in the right direction.

\--

Night is falling in earnest by the time Guy finally stands in front of the inn. Sore and bruised, the last thing he wants is for a watchman to come by and accost him for loitering; he has little money of his own, and the thought of spending it on a room at the inn that he doesn’t even need is a bitter one. He sits for a moment on the lip of a fountain as he weighs his options.

Fate intervenes before he has to decide. Guy looks up, ignoring the protesting muscles in his neck, as hooves clatter into the square. A rider in Thrian livery makes a half-circuit around the square before heading in Guy’s direction.

“Ho!” the rider calls, raising an arm to salute him.

“Can I help you?” Guy responds cautiously, the memory of Gorl and Jalis still fresh.

“I was told to fetch a Sacaean man from in front of the inn. Are you he?”

“Who sent you?”

“A spy in Lord Hector’s employ.”

A sigh of relief gusts from his lungs. “Thank you. I’ll head to the castle immediately.”

The messenger offers him a ride back on the horse, but, footsore as he is, the thought of getting on a horse right now makes him want to lie down and never get up. Matthew’s _alive_ , or alive enough at least to send a message, and that’s all that matters right now. Anything else can wait half an hour while he makes the journey, so Guy just thanks the rider and sends her back the way she came with knowledge that he’s on his way.

By the time Guy makes it to the entrance gate, he’s limping so badly he can barely stand, but the relief humming happily in his chest mitigates the pain somewhat. He doesn’t rest, just goes directly to the main hall where, theoretically, someone should be waiting to direct him. He can rest once he’s ensured there were no casualties, once he’s seen the lot of them safe and whole.

Two guards flank the door to the hall, and they exchange dark glances with each other before stepping forward to bar Guy’s way. “What is your business here, boy?”

Too exhausted to deal with an interrogation, Guy just murmurs, “A retainer of Lord Hector’s sent for me. I’m a member of his…”  He trails off as, apparently deeming his explanation insufficient, one of the guards takes a menacing step forward. _I thought someone would be waiting for me,_ he thinks dimly as he’s grabbed for the second time that day.

“No need for that,” a smooth voice says from behind him. Guy twists his neck painfully around to catch a glimpse of Legault approaching from a side corridor. “He’s with me,” Legault continues. His heels click deafeningly on the stone floor as he approaches. The guard releases Guy slowly, and both watch with suspicious eyes as Legault drags Guy away.

“Legault?  What’s going on?  Where’s Matthew?”

“They’re still cleaning the bodies out of the hall, so of course it was suspicious that someone with Lord Hector wouldn’t know that. I’m fairly certain that peppy cleric is with our dear Matthew right now; I’m taking you to them.”

“The bastard could have told me somewhere else to meet him, then. Why send a message and not tell me where he’s _actually_ going to be…”

“Because I was the one who sent for you.”  Legault stops in front of a series of archways, through which Guy can see nothing but a sea of white linen and bustling bodies.

Suddenly, he can’t take in a breath. His lungs struggle feebly; his tongue feels too large for his mouth, but he stumbles his way through the words anyway. “Why?  What do you mean?  Legault, _please…”_

Legault stares past him into the ward. “Eubans’s men didn’t go easy. There were some injuries. Matthew was…unable to send for you, so I took the liberty of doing it instead. I—“

Guy shoves past him hard enough to send Legault into the wall. All the relief, all the exhaustion, both have evaporated, leaving in their wake a numb weightlessness. Only one thought makes its way through the white noise:  find Serra. Legault said she was with Matthew; her hair should stand out and—

“Guy, stop.”  Legault cuts in front of him, placing hands gently on his shoulders to hold him in place. “You can’t just barge in and cause a panic in a closed ward. I will take you to him.”

“Why are you being so kind?  I don’t even know you,” Guy chokes out, all the fight leaving his body.

“Let’s just say that I feel a kinship with the lad. And I’m feeling a bit in a sentimental mood lately with all these wide-eyed youths around all the time. Clumsy as his attempts to protect his loved ones have been, far be it from me to let them go to waste.”

Legault’s voice fades into the background as Guy finds himself unable to focus. His eyes slide hazily over the small gaggles of nurses, friends, and mourners that cluster around the rows of cots. He has to keep up with Legault, can’t fall behind, and the thief’s legs are so much longer than Guy’s that he has to move quickly to have any hope. Any one of those white beds could be a friend, a dead man, another body he could have helped, if he’d only—

Around the corner is another, smaller grouping of beds. Upright patients occupy two of them: Wil, whose shoulder is wrapped in gauze but looks otherwise unharmed, and a green-haired man in chipped gray armor who Guy doesn’t recognize. None of those things matter, however when Guy’s eyes fall on the third bed.

Serra has put her hood up, white covering her bright hair. That detail filters in, easier to understand and process than the gray of Matthew’s skin, the paleness of his lips, the bandages swathing his chest. Guy gropes beside the bed, pulling out a stool and collapsing onto it, fingers gripping the side of the bed so tightly they go cold.

“He got caught by a poisoned axe while, I don’t know, picking a lock or goofing off or whatever,” Serra says dully. “I drained the poison, but because of that and where the wound is located, I can’t heal the whole thing right away. Elimine’s blessing can work a whole bunch of miracles, but it can’t just teleport the poison somewhere else or prevent scar tissue from stopping up important pathways in the body. So he gets to recover the hard way, which serves him right for going off on his own in the first place.”

“He’s alive,” Guy whispers, half a question, half just an exhale.

“Yeah, he’ll make it.”  Serra wipes her hands on the towel at her waist, then places her cool hand on the top of Guy’s head. “Watch him for a bit while I go see if I’m needed elsewhere, will you?  And you,” she jabs her foot at the cot, “don’t pretend to be asleep the entire time he’s here. Coward.”

She chucks Guy softly under his chin and smiles when he glances up at her. He doesn’t turn his head to watch her leave; he doesn’t register on any level the movements of the other people in the room. He rests his hand lightly over Matthew’s heart. A shudder rolls through his entire body; the tension curls his nails against clammy skin; Guy clutches his throat with his other hand as a sob rips out of him, shameful and loud.

Matthew’s eyes slit open. Fingers brush faint and dry against Guy’s hand, and the weakness in that touch only makes him cry harder, shoulders curling as if it’s possible to hide from what’s laying in front of him and boiling within him.

“Hey,” Matthew rasps, but all Guy can do is shake his head. If someone hadn’t found him quickly, the poison would have ravaged his system until it was too late for a healer to do anything about it. He would have writhed in agony as fire spread through his veins, until it stole his senses, his breath, his life; or he could have just bled out, trying to press the wound shut or stem the bleeding with his cape, until he grew too weak and cold to hold it firmly anymore.

And Guy would have been a half-mile away, slumped on the side of a granite fountain, complaining of his hurt feet. A low moan escapes his chest.

“I should have _been_ there—“

“ _Hey.”_ Matthew pinches the inside of Guy’s wrist sharply. “What happened to you?  Your clothes are torn, and you’ve got a bruise…”

“You’re asking about _me?_ You’re half-dead and all—all mummified, and the poison could still do Elimine knows what to you if Serra missed any, and you’re asking me about a _bruise?_ How can you even _say_ that?”

“The town was supposed to be safe. Nothing should have happened.”  There’s a grim set to his jaw, an all-too-familiar glint in his eye.

“Well something _did_ happen,” Guy bursts out, wiping furiously at the tears on his cheeks with the hand that Matthew isn’t touching. “There were more mercenaries lurking around, apparently shaking down any Sacaean they see for information on Lady Lyn. One grabbed me, so I broke his wrist and ran away instead of causing a scene and getting arrested.”

Fury lights up Matthew’s face. “Those bastards—“

“They were heavily armed—if I hadn’t been able to surprise them, if I hadn’t been able to get away, who knows what could have happened. The big one could have choked me or snapped my neck like a twig.”

“Stop.”

It tastes bitter to hear the pained rasp of Matthew’s voice, but Guy pushes on. His tears have stopped, though he can still feel them drying on his face. He presses down firmly where he feels Matthew’s weak heartbeat. “So, you see, I could have died even though I was away from the fighting. And I would have died heartsick and feeling like a coward, a-and there would be one less person to sit by your bed, a-and…”  His voice trails off, his indignant fire dying out. He rubs his thumb over a small, puckered scar, and another large tear drips down his chin. “I deserve to be here, to see this through to the end. I want to get stronger, which will never happen if I’m sent away from the front. Matthew, I _should have been here.”_

He doesn’t want to see Matthew’s reaction to his outburst, doesn’t want to see him turn to stone again and leave him without any answers. Guy folds like paper, leaning over to press his forehead into Matthew’s side. Hiding again, running again, but at this point he can hardly bring himself to care.

A hand rests gentle against the back of Guy’s neck. He tenses brutally, but then it all bleeds away as the hand begins rubbing in slow, methodical circles and lightly scratching through the thin, soft flyaway hairs escaping from the base of his braid.

“You’re right,” Matthew murmurs. “I should never have sent you away. I was afraid…and I thought that it would be better if you were safe. But that was stupid. No matter what else happens, it will ease both our minds if we can look out for each other, yeah?  I treated you unfairly, and I’m sorry, Guy.”

Guy shakes his head against the canvas mattress. “I don’t want your apology. All I want is to stand by your side. As equals.”

Matthew’s hand stills.

“I know I still owe you one favor, but I hate—“

“Done.”

“What?”  Guy sits up abruptly.

“As soon as I can move off this damn bed, I’ll tear up the contract.”

“You will?”

“I’m asking my last favor right now anyway.”

“…What is it?”

Suddenly, Matthew’s grip turns to iron, yanking him down . Guy yelps and tries to catch himself before their skulls collide, but before he has time to do even that, their mouths meet in the middle.

Everything goes very still. He can hear his own distant heartbeat and feel with more clarity Matthew’ pounding stronger and stronger beneath his touch. Guy is hyperaware of every flutter of his eyelids, every catch of dry skin, every wet touch hinting something more intimate. His ears burn; his skin shivers happily like stepping out of the cold and too close to the fire. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt or ever even dared to imagine and, somewhere beneath his shock, he’s caught in a rising tide of _yes._

Guy couldn’t say, afterwards, which one of them breaks away first. He’s left mesmerized by Matthew’s honeyed eyes only a few inches from his own, suffused in warmth and smiling for the first time in what feels like ages.

“That’s the only favor I ask of you now,” Matthew says. “Before I destroy the contract. Just the kiss. I didn’t want to break our terms too easily and offend your honor, after all.”  His thumb skims over Guy’s bottom lip, looking for all the world like he’d give anything to lean in for another taste.

Guy laughs, tired and giddy and filled up to the brim with emotion. “How about you give yourself a break from looking out for me and my honor, huh?  From now on, we’ll both look out for ourselves…and each other.”

“We have an agreement,” Matthew agrees with a teasing tap to Guy’s nose, and he seizes the torn bits of Guy’s tunic and pulls him back in for more.

**Author's Note:**

> me: i should really focus on some writing ive already promised to do  
> also me: writes over 5,000 words about an old OTP i've barely thought about in over 2 years
> 
> also, this fic is in Guy's perspective, but the title song is more for Matthew. jsyk
> 
> come talk to me about fire emblem over at haloud.tumblr.com!


End file.
